This land — our land — is not a land for lovers
Like us. Here, innocence hides under covers:
My arm around your waist, your furtive kiss,
Our holding hands in public — yes, even this.

The rains are here. The sudden summer showers.
They fairly fall on both our favorite flowers.
Your roses and my hanging jasmines drown,
Perfuming drops that wash the ground to brown.

I watch impartial rains. I watch for hours.
I watch your home across this street of ours.
Your empty room. The roof of red. The line
For clothes. The flower bed. A home like mine.

No gods or men can tell our homes apart.
And yet they’ve slit your throat and crushed my heart.